Summer in a Bowl

On May 26th, my dad experienced another birthday. I say experienced because he claims that he is no longer celebrating birthdays. I'm not certain of how this strategy is working for him, but experience what you will, dad. One experience that I happily celebrated was the meal of grilled vegetables, shrimp, and steak that we all mmmm'd and ahhhh'd over at my parents' house where we gathered to experience the aforementioned birthday. It was one of those experiences that, should it not be one's, say, fortieth or more birthday, would be an experience to relive as soon as possible. So, since I happen to fit this qualification this evening, I decided to re-experience what I could and grill up some more vegetables for dinner.

There are certain "foods of summer": gazpacho, lemon sorbet, pasta salad, maybe even cherry pie. And as long as I'm not the one who has to stand in front of the hot grill, hamburgers and grilled veggie kabobs smack of summer, too. For some, the first day of summer may be June 21st, but the hot season has already made its swift arrival in Chapel Hill. I huddled in the air conditioning today, chiseling away at Mt. Dissertation while the air outside climbed into the nineties, and that means summer to me. Panzanella also means summer to me, especially this version. Its bright vegetables, fragrant green herbs, and deep smokiness of the grill seem to say, "Yes, Sarah, summer is here. It will be humid. It will be oppressive. The mosquitoes will torment you. But send your man out to the sweltering grill, and you will love the taste of summer."


This is not a traditional panzanella. I threw in the vegetables and herbs that beckoned to me from their grocery store bins. Serves 4. You may be thinking that the ingredient list is a little hefty for 4 people, but panzanella is worthy of more than side dish or starter status. I should confess, moreover, that the amount of prep work this recipe requires seems more manageable if served as the dinner. Most of the chopping and such can be done in advance or, in my case, during the many dissertation-writing breaks that must be taken in the course of an afternoon.

Grilled Vegetable Panzanella
a loaf of ciabatta (day old if you have one lying around), cut lengthwise
3-4 ripe tomatoes, cut into 1 inch chunks
2 red onions, cut into quarters
2 bell peppers, color of your choosing, cut into 2 inch chunks
3 portabello mushrooms, cut into 2 inch chunks
2 zucchini, cut into 1/3 inch slices
four cloves garlic, three minced and one just peeled
1/4 cup drained and rinsed capers
a good amount of olive oil
a selection of chopped herbs (e.g. basil, tarragon, chives, dill)
four scallions, green and white parts cut into 1/4 inch pieces
salt and fresh pepper

for the dressing:
zest and juice of one lemon
more olive oil, about 1/3 cup
a few dashes of red wine vinegar
a medium bunch of flat leaf parsley, roughly chopped

1. Stuff onions, peppers, mushroom, and zucchini in gallon sized zip lock bags. Throw in the minced garlic and chopped herbs, douse it all with olive oil. Season generously with salt and pepper. Seal bags, and let the vegetables marinate for at least an hour, turning the bags every now and then.
2. Prepare barbecue (medium-high heat).
3. Slide vegetable slices onto skewers. If you're using wooden skewers, soak them in water while you're marinating the vegetables. Grill vegetables, turning occasionally, until tender and crispy around the edges. The onions and peppers will take longer than the mushrooms and zucchini, so you may want to pair the vegetables up accordingly on the grill.
4. Brush the bread slices with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Grill bread until brown and crisp, turning occasionally. Remove from grill and run whole garlic clove over the cut sides of bread.
5. Cut bread into 1 inch pieces. Cut grilled vegetables into slightly smaller pieces, if you like.
6. Throw bread and vegetables into a large bowl. Add tomatoes, capers, scallions, parsley, and lemon zest. Drizzle with lemon juice, vinegar, and olive oil. Season with salt and pepper, and toss well to combine.

Most panzanella recipes suggest that you let all the ingredients stand and mingle for awhile before serving, but since I like to experience my bread while it's still good and crispy, I celebrate summer in a bowl by eating it up right away.

Atlantis Scallops with Bacon

There is a little place in Pine Knoll Shores, North Carolina that bears the modest name of Atlantis Motor Lodge. Any description I could give of the Atlantis would pale in comparison with the color of this strange and charming place. And color, it has. From what I can gather, this three level beach front motel was built in the early sixties, and the room decor has somehow been preserved in its original state. Every room looks out onto the white beach where patrons shade their dogs under huge yellow umbrellas stamped "Atlantis" in red. Oh yes, at the Atlantis, your pets are welcome. The grounds almost drip with flowers, and the grass is psychedelic green. I could swear the honeysuckle vines that wind their way around the pool smell of banana-scented sun tan oil.

This spring marked the first year in many that the Rogers clan did not pack its pug into the car and head to the Atlantis for a long weekend of beaching. So, when Patrick and I decided to take a mid-week beach vacation to celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary, the Atlantis beckoned. We spent our days shuffling from the beach to the pool and back again. Several gin and tonics were imbibed. And, as our room was equipped with a tiny refrigerator and range top, much fresh seafood was eaten. Wednesday night was sauteed shrimp with tomatoes, garlic, and red pepper flakes. Scallops were slated for Thursday, but I couldn't quite decide what to do with them. I was inclined to serve them seared and naked, save for salt and pepper. Or with leeks? Wilted spinach? I felt the stirrings of a small existential crisis. The words, "Any suggestions for how I might cook the scallops?," tumbled out of my mouth. Now, Patrick is a good eater, a praiser of dishes, and an excellent washer of empty plates, but some years ago I gave up the hope of eliciting anything in the way of a suggestion for dinner from him. I do not wish to mislead: most of the time this reticence is a blessing. No demands, no whining, nobody crowding my culinary space. But sometimes, just sometimes, when, let's say, I am on a beach vacation and trying to come up with a meal that will require no more than the two skillets and one dull knife with which each Atlantis "kitchen" is equipped, a suggestion, almost any suggestion, would be welcome. I was so unprepared to receive such a suggestion that I barely heard the words, "What about bacon?," fill the air of room 122.

Yes, of course, bacon...salty, maple-sugary, its bold flavors distant cousins of the briny sweetness of sea scallops. It should, perhaps, be said that Patrick loves bacon, and looking back on this exchange, I have begun to wonder if he was secretly entertaining hopes of leftover breakfast bacon when he made this ingenious suggestion. Of one thing I am certain: these scallops with bacon were very, very, good.

Atlantis Scallops with Bacon
one pound sea scallops, patted dry and sprinkled generously with salt and fresh pepper
1 teaspoon cooking oil
4 strips of bacon, cut into one inch pieces
one bell pepper, diced
one 12-14 oz. bag frozen corn
four scallions, white and green parts, cut into 1/4 inch pieces
salt and fresh ground pepper

1. Cook bacon, stirring every now and then, in a large skillet over medium heat until almost crispy
2. Add pepper and corn; cook, stirring occasionally, 6-8 minutes
3. Add scallions, stir to combine, season with salt and pepper, reduce heat to low.
4. Meanwhile, in another large skillet (non-stick, if one's handy), heat a teaspoon of oil over high heat until smoking.
5. Sear scallops on each side, 4-8 minutes total, depending on the size of your scallops. Overcooked scallops are not very good.
6. Spoon some of the corn mixture onto plates, and top with several seared scallops.
Serves 2 if you're vacationing at the beach and glutting yourself on seafood. Otherwise, serves 4.

"Meal of Choice"

To some recipe aficionados, the "meal of choice" may not seem like a recipe at all. No ingredient list need be checked off. No series of preparation imperatives need be forced upon the hungry, and perhaps weary, preparer of meals. The meal of choice is precisely that: a selection of ingredients of one's very own choosing, built to satisfy one's very own taste and texture hankerings, and - most important of all - prepared without the thought of heating one's miniscule kitchen. The meal of choice is made for North Carolina summers, or, as the case may be, late spring evenings such as are now settling over our fair state. After a half-week at the beach, lubricated with unctuous sun blocks, and almost as unctuous seafood dinners, a meal of choice was the only choice for our first night back home in the little red house.

There are times when a girl feels bombarded with choice: what class? what career? what skirt? what insurance plan? what name for the yet unconceived baby? what to make for dinner? For such a girl (who may or may not have a husband who is incapable of planning dinner), the meal of choice transforms those daily existential crises into a table filled with countless possibilities. Sartre himself may very well have been behind this evening's choice of meal of choice. Dozing as Patrick steered us back from the coast, I listened (not, ahem, by choice) to the existentialism lectures on tape which he checked out of the library for just such expanses of highway. If Sartre, according to whom all - even every emotion - is chosen, were to roam the grocery store aisles with me, I would like to think that he would choose an entirely different meal of choice than I. Such choices, I find, generate happiness.

If you are so inclined to serve a meal of choice, grocery store roaming is all the preparation you need. Choose some fruit, maybe some fresh (plums, pears, strawberries), maybe some dried (pineapple, dates, cherries). Choose some cured meat, perhaps. Cast your eyes upon the cheeses. Maybe you'll scoop up a few. Choose a ripe tomato, or avocado. Linger by the olives. Squeeze the bread loaves. Pick one, or make your way toward the crackers. Choose a bottle of wine, based on the grape, the country, the oakiness, the fruitiness, the label, or close your eyes and point - you see, it's your choice.

May 27th's meal of choice at the Millers' featured a crusty baguette, melty taleggio cheese, spicy olives, hot house tomatoes with basil, fresh mozzarella, and olive oil, prosciutto, dried mission figs, and cool Chardonnay. As we were dining al fresco, it also featured mosquitoes, which, I am inclined to say, were not my choice; but, as Sartre would disagree, I might even admit to having chosen them too.

I Heart Anchovies

To my knowledge, the first time I learned of such a thing as an anchovy was around age eight. My family had somehow acquired a movie called "Nick Danger, Third Eye," with the unfortunate subtitle, "When Two Eyes Aren't Enough." One scene of this masterpiece of camp features the movie's villain ordering a pizza and asking specifically for anchovies, "those little flat things with eyes." I may have associated this disturbing scene with the confusing title of the movie (just where was this three-eyed monster, and how did eating eye-bearing pizza toppings fit in with the plot?). I do know that the thought of pizza with eyeballs was enough to make bile rise in my eight year old palate. How could I foresee that moment, some fourteen years later, when I would fall desperately in love with anchovy pizza on a balcony in Rome? At first I thought that my attraction to anchovies was simply the excuse of a salt addict looking for a potato chip alternative. I've even envied goats their low calorie salt licks. But there is more to the anchovy than salt...there is that taste of the sea which has led me to think of these lowly fish as the poor girl's caviar.

I have been fortunate enough to marry another anchovy-ite, which is no slight coincidence considering the staggering amount of anchovy-haters I've encountered since my conversion. I will here admit, knowing the slim readership these pages now enjoy, that I have slipped anchovies into the dishes of unsuspecting dinner guests. You didn't know it, but that robust, briny depth of the dish you praised...well, thank the little flat things with eyes that I secretly dissolved into it while you weren't looking. The unassuming beauty of the anchovy...it dissolves without a trace, other than a certain robustness, yielding center stage to some other less objectionable ingredient. Except for this recipe. Let's just say it's not for the anchovy faint of heart. Here, anchovies play more than a supporting role, refusing to back down to the brave bitterness of the radicchio. The lemon somehow manages to mellow and punch up both flavors.

Radicchio with Anchovy and Rosemary Sauce
from Saveur, with a few changes
This sauce would also be excellent over grilled or roasted fish. Serves 4.


Place 2 tablespoons rosemary leaves in a mortar and grind as finely as possible. Add 10 anchovy filets and grind to a paste. Mix in juice of half a medium-sized lemon. Stirring constantly, add 2/3 cup fruity extra-virgin olive oil, a few drops at a time. Transfer sauce to a small bowl. Core 2 heads of radicchio. Separate leaves and arrange them on a platter around sauce.

The Bruschetta Bug

About once every two weeks, I come down with the bruschetta bug. I can sometimes stave off a full-blown attack by serving bruschetta at dinner parties. Little do the guests know that the bruschetta course was designed specifically for me. This particular instance which I set out at a chocolate tasting party a year or so back kept me healthy for a few months. Yes, those are mountains of capers, tomatoes, goat cheese, raw almonds, olives, roasted peppers, and sopprasetta. Over the course of the evening, we conquered those mountains.

But because I can't manage to host a dinner party every time I start feeling symptoms, I must turn to the bruschetta dinner to cure myself of the ailment. As you might assume, the bruschetta dinner makes an entire meal out of what generally serves as party food or the prelude to something else. I've been cured by canellini and arugula in the winter, tomato and fresh mozzerella in the summer, and pureed fava beans in the spring. And now I have another recipe to add to the medicine cabinet: prosciutto and basil. Try this for acute bruschetta bug - it requires just about no chopping, sauteing, or food processoring-ing.


Bruschetta with Basil and Prosciutto
featured, with a few minor differences, in the most recent edition of Martha's Living

one baguette, cut on a diagonal into into 3/4 inch slices
1 garlic clove, peeled
a large bunch of fresh basil leaves (enough to cover top of each slice of bread)
thinly sliced prosciutto (one slice per piece of bread is a good estimate)
olive oil
salt and ground pepper

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Arrange bread slices on rimmed baking sheets. Lightly brush tops of slices with olive oil. Season with salt and pepper. Toast in oven until golden, 7-10 minutes. Remove from oven and swipe garlic clove across the top of each toasted bread slice.
2. Top each slice of bread with basil and folded slices of prosciutto. Drizzle with a bit of olive oil, and season with pepper.

Chicken Diaries, part one

Chicken, I've been untrue. Yes, we've had some good times. I haven't forgotten how I used to beg Mom to cook you up with homeade dumplings. And you've always made me happy when you've dressed up and met me at restaurants. Remember that time I had you in my uncle's restaurant, all glistening and crispy on some kind of spiced bean concoction? You even coaxed me out of that vegetarian phase. It's just that I started to get bored. I know, I know...you're flexible, you like to experiment. You don't have to remind me of all the recipes we could try together. But it started to feel like work. I just can't brine or marinate you every time. I started to cook just about anything to get my mind off of you sitting there in my freezer. One week went by, then another, and another. I almost started to forget you, to think that I had really moved on. Chicken, I neglected you. I'll say it clearly: you proved me wrong. That artichoke, sun-dried tomato thing we did together last night...well, it was really good.


Chicken with Artichokes, Sun-Dried Tomatoes, and Israeli Couscous for Two

Two bone-in Chicken breasts with skin on
3 teaspoons or so olive oil
a couple tablespoons of all purpose flour
4-5 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
a few pinches hot pepper flakes
salt and ground pepper
3/4 cup water or chicken broth
a good handful of sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil, cut into strips
4 scallions, thinly sliced (white and green parts separated)
1 can artichokes packed in water, drained, rinsed, and cut in half
1/2 cup Israeli couscous
chopped fresh parsley
1 lemon cut into wedges


1. Set a pot of salted water to boil. Boil couscous until tender, but still chewy (about 10 minutes). Drain and toss with parsley and green parts of scallions.
2. Heat 3 teaspoons oil in pan over medium-high heat. Season chicken with salt and pepper, and then coat it in flour. Saute chicken until golden brown and cooked through. My chicken took about 5 minutes per side. Remove chicken from pan and cover it with aluminum foil to keep it warm. Pour out all but a few teaspoons of excess fat from pan.
3. Add to pan garlic, pepper flakes, white parts of scallions, 3/4 cup of water (or chicken broth). Bring to a boil as you scrape up brown bits from pan. Add artichokes and sun-dried tomatoes. Season with salt and pepper. Cook until everything is heated through and reduced slightly, 2-3 minutes.
4. Spoon mixture over chicken and serve with couscous and lemon wedges.

Ode to an Immersion Blender

Miniscule kitchens like mine have their own endearing qualities. They keep extra cooks out of the kitchen, for example. By this, I don't simply mean that I like to be left to my own culinary inclinations. My kitchen is literally a one person kitchen. Patrick stands right outside of the doorway if he wants to talk while I'm cooking. There is just no room for him. Space limitations also prevent me from helping him do the dinner dishes. There is just no room for me! Miniscule kitchens also make a girl think twice about adding to her kitchen gadget collection. My determination to make gnocchi almost faltered upon the thought of finding space for a potato-ricer. I've had kitchen gadget buyer's remorse. Did I really need that spice grinder? The heart-shaped springform pan? The big, fancy coffee maker that is slowly gathering dust while I reach morning after morning for my tiny stove top model with the melted plastic handle? But the kitchen gadget I will never doubt, the sleek machine that has earned its precious kitchen space, O immersion blender, how happy you have made a soup-lover in her miniscule kitchen!


After a blender malfunction a few years back left me splattered with hot corn chowder, I had sworn off soups of the pureed persuasion, justifying this grave limitation by assuring myself of the countless chunky soups to which I would direct my efforts. And then I received the gift that just keeps giving: a birthday immersion blender. Now I no longer feel that sinking sensation when I come across the words "puree in batches." A brave new world of creamy asparagus soup, vichyssoise, and gazpacho has opened up before me. This tomato soup was last night's immersion blender miracle.

Roasted Tomato Soup
























This recipe, from epicurious.com, claims to serve 8 people, but Patrick and I finished off nearly half of it between the two of us. I suppose it could serve 6 as a first course, but it's a great dinner for 4 when served with some hot, crusty bread for dipping.

4 lbs. tomatoes, halved lengthwise
6-8 garlic cloves, left unpeeled
3 tablespoons olive oil
salt and pepper
1 medium onion, chopped
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon dried red pepper flakes (if you want some spice)
2 teaspoons sugar (or less if your tomatoes are very sweet)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 cups chicken stock or vegetable stock
1/2 cup heavy cream (or half and half, or milk)

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Arrange tomatoes, cut sides up, in a single layer on shallow baking pans. Strew garlic among the tomatoes, drizzle everything with olive oil, sprinkle generously with salt and pepper, and put pans in the oven. This is when you will begin to salivate. Roast tomatoes and garlic for 1 hour, then cool the pans on racks, and squeeze the roasted garlic out of their skins.
3. Cook onion, oregano, red pepper flakes, and sugar in butter in a 6-8 quart heavy pot over moderately low heat, stirring frequently until onion is dissolved, 5-8 minutes. Add tomatoes, garlic, and stock. Simmer covered for about 20 minutes.
4. Take your immersion blender in hand and blithely puree the soup. If you do not have an immersion blender, poor soul, puree in batches in a blender.
5. Stir in cream, add some salt and pepper if you like, and simmer for 2 minutes.

How to say "I love you" with Macadamia Nuts

It wasn't a "real" birthday cake. My sister makes those. She has deftly mastered the goopy batter, toothpick-testing, layering, and messy icing demanded by real birthday cakes. The finished masterpieces are always impressive. I dare say that the dark chocolate and blackberry groom's cake she made for my wedding reception out-performed the professionally made bride's cake.

I just didn't get that cake-making gene. Sure, I can make a virgin cheesecake, but a birthday cake, well, that's a different sort of creature all together. So when I started planning a birthday dinner for my mom, I knew that buttering and flouring cake tins would not be in the works. I wanted something vaguely cake-like...birthday chocolate mousse, for example, just won't do. A bit of rummaging through the bulging "dessert" section of my "Recipes to make or make again" accordion folder turned up a promising contender: chocolate macadamia nut tart.

It's a minor dessert miracle, really. Although you just mix all of the filling ingredients together and dump them into the crust-lined tart pan, this beauty emerges with a secret layer of fudgy chocolate hiding beneath the golden macadamia nut-studded exterior. And, oh, the macadamia nuts. What other nuts say, I love you, like macadamia nuts?

My mom likened this dessert to a giant round candy bar. Some would, therefore, conclude that it is best enjoyed in small slivers. Not my husband. I believe he had four largish helpings within a twenty-four hour period, and that only counting the times I actually witnessed him with a slice on his plate. Dessert certainly received more "ooohs" and "mmmms" than the seared scallops with grapes and toasted almonds I served before it. That recipe will not be finding its way back into my accordion folder. But this tart is there to stay.

I always find making my own tart crust so much less grueling than I imagine it will be. The pastry dough for this tart is pretty manageable, as long it has time to chill in the refrigerator before being rolled out. And the recipe makes double what you need, so whipping up the next specimen will be even easier.

Chocolate Macadamia Nut Tart
slightly adapted from the version in Martha Stewart's Desserts:

all-purpose flour for rolling out dough
1/2 recipe pastry dough (recipe to follow)
2 large eggs
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup (1 and 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
6 ounces semi-sweet chocolate, chopped
2 and 1/2 cups unsalted whole macadamia nuts

Pastry Dough
2 and 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, chilled and cut into small pieces
2 large egg yolks

1. Heat oven to 400 degrees. On a lightly floured surface, roll the pastry dough into a circle large enough to fit your tart pan (I used a 9 inch pan, so I rolled the dough to about 12 inches). Trim pastry evenly along the edges, making sure that the dough is pressed fully into the curves of the pan that make the crust so pretty. Chill for 30 minutes.
2. In a large bowl, whisk together eggs, sugars, and vanilla until combined. Whisk in flour and salt, then the butter. Stir in the chocolate. Pour mixture into the chilled tart shell. Cover the top with macadamia nuts, pressing them halfway down into the filling.
3. Bake 10 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 350 degrees and continue baking until crust and nuts turn golden, between 35 and 45 minutes. If the tart starts to get too brown, cover it with aluminum foil for the rest of the cooking time. Transfer tart to wire rack to cool.

For pastry dough:
1. In the bowl of a food processor, combine flour and sugar. Add butter, and process until mixture resembles coarse meal, 10 to 20 seconds.
2. In a small bowl, lightly beat egg yolks; add 1/4 cup ice water. With the machine running, add the egg mixture is a slow stream through the feed tube. Pulse until dough holds together without being wet or sticky. This should not take more than 30 seconds. If dough is still crumbly, add a bit of ice water, 1 tablespoon at a time.
3. Divide dough into two equal balls. Flatten each ball into a disk, and wrap in plastic. Transfer to the refrigerator, and chill at least one hour. Dough may be stored frozen for up to 1 month.